A spot on your chin, hairdo and face
shamelessly flustered, body

close to collapse, the red light
draws you seductively forward
until the glass sugars the tarmac
and a slow plane circles the city.

"Is it cold or is it me?" "It’s cold,"
I say, "and it’s you as well."
After the hugs and kisses

I take your pulse,
your nails haloed with blood.
What’s different is all that matters.